


Band of Gold

by LadyDorian



Category: 60 Parsecs!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Baby deserves the world, Family, Holidays, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Slice of Life, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:01:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28070598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyDorian/pseuds/LadyDorian
Summary: Set after the events of "Find You." Baby struggles with his fear of telling Emmet's family about his past, and what it could mean for their future together.
Relationships: Baby Bronco/Emmet Ellis
Comments: 4
Kudos: 5





	Band of Gold

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Find You](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17698763) by [LadyDorian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyDorian/pseuds/LadyDorian). 



> I originally wanted to leave this as a short Holiday headcanon, but it called to me, so I had to write it. Technically it takes place over Thanksgiving, but consider it my Christmas gift to the Brommet fandom (or whatever holiday you celebrate, or if you don't celebrate at all, it's still my gift to you, for being so wonderful and supportive throughout the years).
> 
> You may need to have some knowledge of "Find You" to get some of the references in this fic, but if not, then I hope you will enjoy it anyway.
> 
> CW for (very) brief mention of child abuse. Because Baby's parents.

The slim gold ring glitters like Orion's belt inside its dark, velvet-lined tray, almost as breathtaking as when Emmet had taken him to the planetarium to show him the real thing. Or as close as they could get without a rocketship to carry them. _"Wow,"_ he sighs. "It's so sparkly." 

The woman presenting the tray flashes another persuasive smile, but Baby is too taken by the ring to hold it for more than a second. "It's 24-karat pure gold," she says. "Simple, elegant, and at a price none of the other jewelers can match."

Baby reluctantly lifts his gaze. "How much?"

"Around $1600 for the pair. But if you decide to go with 14-karat, it would lower the price to well under your budget."

 _$1600, huh?_ That's more than enough to cover their monthly rent, groceries and utilities, and the several packs of film Emmet keeps in the fridge just behind the carton of OJ. Maybe he should buy him more film instead? Sure, it might not be very romantic, but… "Do ya think Emmet will like it?" He asks, turning to his partner-in-engagement-crimes.

Deedee grins and elbows him in the arm, the jab hurting a lot less than it would if she wasn't wearing her puffy winter coat and he his thick work jacket. "Are you kidding? It'll be his second favorite thing that he never takes off. Besides you-know-what."

"Oh." Blushing, Baby shifts back to the woman behind the counter, fingers crossed that she hasn't—through some random stroke of telepathy—caught on to the secret of Emmet's shy feet. She doesn't seem like the psychic type, though she does bear the smile and charm of a used car salesman, albeit without the tacky suit and gold-capped tooth to match. And even if she hadn't plied them with fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies and wine—at 11AM—Baby could easily see himself pulling the gun on this one in a heartbeat. That is, if there weren't other things on his mind.

He scratches the back of his head to try to scrape off the hesitation. "I dunno...Can I have a little time to think about it?"

"What, you think he's actually gonna turn you down?" Deedee snorts.

Maybe a part of him does. Or maybe he just feels like he doesn't belong here, standing among rows of glass cases and fawning young couples hoping to spend eternity together. Even his folks—two half-lit powder kegs ready to blow—had possessed enough brain cells to know never to hit up a jewelry store. "No," he replies. "It's just…"

"Don't worry," the saleswoman smiles. "Take all the time you need. But just to let you know, we are having our Black Friday sale next week, so if you come back then, you could get up to thirty percent off all engagement rings and wedding bands. If you decide you'd like to add some diamonds."

"Thanks, I'll remember that." Mournfully, Baby watches the woman slip the tray of rings back into its case and lock it up tight. With his dream now out of reach, he turns his weary eyes to Deedee. "C'mon, let's go get some lunch." Though he isn't sure his tangled-up stomach can handle the shawarma sandwich he'd promised her.

Deedee glares silently, then spins around and stalks towards the exit. 

"What the hell was that?" She growls as soon as the door has shut behind them. "We talked about this a month ago and _now_ you get cold feet?" 

A man and woman squeak past on their way into the store, snickering at their apparent lovers' quarrel. "It's not cold feet," Baby insists. But he doubts Deedee and the rest of the onlookers itching for a good argument will believe it.

As predicted, Deedee rolls her eyes before storming off, leaving Baby to weave a crooked path through the bustle of Saturday shoppers. "Hey! Where are you goin'? The restaurant is the other way!"

"Yeah, well I need a pick-me-up after that bullshit. I don't even care if it's grade-A Colombian or dirty sock water." Apparently not, since he catches her flinging open the door to a Starbucks on the opposite corner of the street. "Go grab us a seat," she commands, her back still turned. "We're gonna have a heart-to-heart."

 _Shit,_ this can't be good. One shot of espresso he might be able to handle. Two could become a mild catastrophe. But when he hears Deedee order _four_ —well, he'd be better off finding a manhole and throwing himself into the sewer. 

Her wildly-caffeinated beverage obtained, she carries it to their table and angrily flops down in the seat across from him, glare still white-hot even as she removes the lid of her paper cup and blows across the steaming surface. "So? You got something to say?"

 _No. Yes. Maybe._ Baby drums his fingers on his knees and tries to look away, but the fire in Deedee's eyes reminds him of the time he was eleven and all the neighborhood kids came out to watch Mr. Jones' house burn to the ground. Curiosity mired in tragedy, though this time the cause is much more heinous than insurance fraud. "Deedee, I don't know if I can do this."

"Do what?" She sneers. "Break Emmet's heart?"

"N-No, I'd _never._ Emmet means more to me than the whole universe. I'm just—" He swallows his words, prays they resurface into something coherent. "I'm scared I might be rushin' things."

"Baby, you've been dating again for almost a year now. We were planning to go out for your anniversary just after Thanksgiving. Remember?"

He does. He remembers every second, every kiss, every tear they've shed together. Those early nights where Emmet buried his face in his neck and cried himself to sleep. The tough conversations and gentle reassurances. The first time he smiled again— _truly_ smiled—and Baby felt that the worst was over, that they were finally on the path to righting everything that had gone wrong. A dream he wanted to believe with all his heart.

Eyes swelling with tears, he whimpers, "What if somethin' bad happens?"

"You guys have been through hell and back," Deedee emphatically reminds him, "and you've never given up—not for a second. I don't think marriage is going to be much different."

"No, I mean—what if _it_ happens again?"

She sighs and sets her coffee down mid-sip. "How long has it been since Emmet's had any of his dreams?"

"A—A long time."

"What about arguments?"

"Not since I mixed up the laundry a couple weeks ago."

"And he's back to teaching now, and happy, and a lot more relaxed than he used to be. You're both trying your hardest to make sure that whatever happened never happens again."

Heavy with guilt, Baby's gaze sinks to his lap, a ship burdened by the holes that he alone had punched throughout its hull. "I'm not."

He can almost hear Deedee's nose wrinkling. _"What."_

"Emmet's doin' everythin' he can," he explains. "He's seein' his therapist, talkin' about his feelin's more. He met my coworkers an' gym buddies, he even came down to meet my Ma once. But I—I—" The truth stings like salt in a festering wound. "I haven't even told his folks about my past yet. How can I ask him to marry me if his family thinks I'm someone else?"

"Baby, you're not _someone else,_ you're their son's boyfriend," she says, much gentler than he deserves. "Besides, you've met them, like, a dozen times now. You've gotta know they wouldn't hold that against you."

The only thing Baby knows is how quickly life can change, with or without his efforts. "I mean, sure, they always treated me like I'm their own." Though even kin can be as easy to toss out as last week's garbage. "But I been lyin' to 'em for so long, there's no way they won't be mad." 

"So?"

Puzzled, he looks up. "So what?"

"So people get angry. And eventually, they get over it. Especially when their son is going to marry the love of his life." She takes a long sip from her cup, licks the caffeine from her lips, and asks, "What does Emmet think? I'm guessing you told him how you feel about this?" The last part comes out as something of a threat, complete with narrowed eyes and an unspoken warning not to fuck this up. Baby shivers.

"He...never pushes it. Of course, we ain't gonna tell 'em 'bout the amnesia an' stuff—Emmet says it'll be too much to handle. But we talk about it sometimes, and he always tells me that it's my decision to make. But that he'll be there whenever I'm ready. He's got the patience of a saint." 

"Emmet? Patient? Wow, you really did a number on him," jokes Deedee. "I don't know if I should be impressed or jealous."

"Thanks, but…" He's not entirely up for compliments today. Or Middle-Eastern food, but he'll be damned if he's going to disappoint Deedee any more than he's done already. "I just get this feelin' that once they find out all the terrible stuff I done, they're gonna hate me for it. And then Emmet will hate me. And if we end up forgettin' it all, it'll be my fault this time." He scrubs the saltwater from his eyes with his knuckles. "We're supposed to be makin' happy memories, not sad ones."

Deedee's gaze softens as though she might cry as well, to remind him of the morning after things had come to a head, when she'd rushed through the door, thrown her arms around his neck and promised she'd never forget him again. "Baby, you can't let this eat you up inside. You're going to have to come clean eventually. You've done it before, with Emmet, with me. I know you've got the courage to pull it off again."

Her peace said, she stretches out her palm and shows Baby that kind smile he's seen more often than his own. "And I'll be here when you're ready, too. You can count on it."

Sniffling, Baby smiles back and reaches to grasp it. "Thanks, Deedee. You're the best friend a guy could have."

"Good enough for a shawarma sandwich and another look at wedding bands?" She winks.

Baby laughs, "An' a basket of fries to go with it."

"Make it two and you've got a deal."

*****

He swears they must have checked out every shop on Jewelers' Row, manhandled more rings than a circus performer, and seen enough gems that his eyeballs feel encrusted with diamonds by the time he drags his feet up the stairs to their apartment, some six hours after he and Deedee had set out that morning. He could use a hot shower and a decent night's sleep, whatever helps clear his mind of all the thoughts jumbled up inside it—shiny and dull, expensive and cheaper than the cheapest sale on Hot Pockets. Indigestion ratcheted up to a ten. Nothing to do but pray to the antacid gods and hope for the best.

At least he finds something to smile about when he opens the front door and sees Emmet lounging on the sofa in his pajamas, a tattered paperback resting on his lap. "Hey," he smiles at Baby. "Wasn't expecting you home so soon. Did you guys run out of house to tear down?"

Baby chuckles, "Boss let us go once it got dark. Said it was an early Thanksgivin' present for makin' us work overtime all this week. How 'bout you? I thought you'd still be crunchin' out schoolwork?"

Emmet slips a bookmark between the dog-eared pages of his novel and shuts the cover. "I finished up a couple hours ago. I thought we could have a relaxing night together." A smirk creeps across his lips and he holds the book up for Baby to see. "Thanks for letting me borrow this, by the way. I got some pretty good... _ideas_ from it."

Hopefully those ideas don't involve steering a ship through a raging storm while clutching each other's half-naked bodies. Their apartment isn't as small as Emmet's old one, but he highly doubts they could fit so much as a canoe into the living room. "I thought you didn't like romance novels?"

"I mean, there's a few too many heaving breasts for my taste. But at least I know how to tie knots now," he says with a suggestive wiggle of his brows.

 _Oh._ So that's where this is going. "Is this 'cause I won't have sex with you while we're stayin' with yer folks?"

"What, like I'm not capable of keeping my voice down?" Emmet counters.

"It ain't about the noise," Baby says. Not so much as it is the bodily fluids and lube-stained sheets. "It's just...diser—disrespectful. I mean, it's not even yer house."

"It's _my_ room."

"Yeah, from when you were a kid. We're grownups now, an' grownups don't need to have sex three times a week."

"Well, _someone_ sounds like they don't want chicken stir fry and a blowjob tonight."

 _Of course_ Emmet would know exactly the right way to push his buttons. Or maybe _prodding his rod_ would be a better phrase. "I mean—I'm not _not_ lookin' forward to it," he blushes. "The chicken _and_ the blowjob."

Laughing, Emmet pushes himself to his feet and strides over to give Baby a peck on the lips. "Go shower and you can help me cook. And _then_ you can find out what happens next."

"One more kiss?" Baby asks sheepishly. "For good luck?"

"What, are you afraid you might forget to wash behind your ears?" He gives them a playful tug before carding his fingers through Baby's curls and leaning in for a deeper kiss, and Baby can only hope he doesn't notice that his hair isn't half as sweaty as when he usually returns from work.

"It's good to have you home," Emmet smiles. "Now hurry up. I've got enough fun planned to last until we pile in the car Thanksgiving morning."

Baby grins and lifts his hand in an eager salute. "Yessir!" And with that, he rushes to the bathroom, certain that a nice, long shower—coupled with whatever plans Emmet has for them—will be enough to stifle his thoughts. Even if only for a while.

*****

"Hey, Emmet?"

"Yeah?"

"I think I'm ready." 

With a sultry purr, Emmet wriggles up against him, his breath ticklish, and his kisses hot and moist where they pepper his neck. _"Mmm..._ yeah. I think—I could go—another round."

"No," Baby says, tempting as the suggestion may be. "I meant with your folks. Th-That is—" He scrambles to come up with something that doesn't sound so...inappropriate, considering their sweaty, naked state. "I'm ready to come clean. About my past."

"Oh. _Oh."_ Shaking off his sex-blindness, Emmet quickly sits upright, the scant light from the bedroom window making his brown eyes glimmer in the darkness. "Are you sure? I know it's been a...touchy topic for you."

About as touchy as a belt sander on his skin. "Yeah, I'm sure. I can't keep putin' it off forever. It's already been a year."

"Do you have a plan? You want to talk to both at once, or separate?"

Does trying his best not to have a heart attack over dinner count as a plan? "Not yet. But I'll figure somethin' out by then." And it won't be _"Me and my folks got put in prison, please pass the stuffing."_

"OK, then," Emmet softly replies. "If you're sure you're ready, we can tell them this weekend. It should be quiet this year, just the four of us. I'll be right beside you when—"

"No—" Baby interjects. "I gotta do this myself."

"Baby…"

"I love ya, Emmet," he says. "I know you just wanna help. But…" Like he'd said, they're grownups now. "But they're my mistakes. An' I gotta own up to 'em." 

Tender fingers caress his cheek, a soft murmur, a press of lips on his forehead. "Alright. I won't hold your hand. But I'll be there for you one hundred percent. You're the bravest person I know. No matter how painful it feels, you can do this. You've already done so much for me."

The gold ring shines inside Baby's head, miles and miracles away. "Thanks. I'll try my best."

"Trust me, it'll be alright," Emmet yawns as he sinks down to rest his head on Baby's shoulder again. "I just know it will."

Sighing, Baby pulls Emmet closer. "Yeah," he echoes, it'll turn out alright." But when he stares up at the starless ceiling, all he imagines are faded memories and broken dreams, and a life so empty he can't bear the thought of living it.

*****

"Is everything alright, Baby?"

"Huh?" Baby looks up from the Thanksgiving crime scene unraveling on his plate and locks his bloodshot eyes with Marie's cheerful ones, her smile warm and patient as she waits for an answer four sleepless nights in the making. "Oh, it's—everythin's...great." As if she can't tell by the way he'd spent the past fifteen minutes rolling cranberries around and picking apart turkey until it resembled a picture-perfect diagram of his frayed nerves. "I—um—I like the seasonin' you used."

"Come on, Baby," she chuckles, giving a little nod to his creation. "You don't need to lie to me."

The knot in Baby's stomach coils to a noose. "N-No. I-I'm not—"

"The turkey's a little dry, isn't it?"

 _Oh, thank god._ It takes all of his willpower not to guzzle the meager glass of wine that had accompanied his dinner. "No, really, it's good. Better'n anythin' I've eaten outside our kitchen." He forces a laugh about as hollow as the half-empty candy dish sitting on top of the TV cabinet, his insides clenching tighter when he sees the frown that crosses Marie's lips.

"Sorry, but gravy can't save this one," she says as she stabs her slice of white meat. "I've broken the Second Commandment of the Holidays: 'Thou shalt baste frequently'."

"You...mean there's rules?" If there are, he's probably violating about three of them right now. "Wh-What's the first?"

"Never lie to your hostess."

"Oh." What a fine time to be right about something.

But Marie only laughs sweetly. "Relax, Baby. I'm teasing. I'm just a little annoyed with myself for messing up, is all."

"Mom, the turkey is delicious," Emmet chimes in. "You have nothing to worry about."

"That's easy for you to say. You cook for Baby all the time. I only get a few days out of the year to impress him."

Great, now he's nauseous _and_ blushing. "I-It's OK. You don't gotta—"

 _"Impress?"_ Emmet snorts into his wine glass with such force, Baby expects Merlot to go shooting out of his nose. "Remember how his jaw dropped when he saw your lasagna for the first time? Or when you made mac-and-cheese for Easter and we couldn't get the fork out of his mouth for more than a minute? I thought he was gonna bite right through it."

If only his jaw were strong enough to bite through his anxiety. "Well—I mean—"

"Oh, I'm not letting you off the hook that easy, Baby." She jabs her fork at him in a playful threat. "By the end of the night, you _will_ be impressed."

"Speaking of impressed…" George adds, one eye trained on the living room television. "I'd like to shake the hand of whatever chef made this green bean casserole. Actually got me to eat my vegetables."

Marie rolls her eyes. "It's a Thanksgiving miracle."

"It was Baby's idea," Emmet explains, as proudly as if he'd opened the cans of beans and cream of mushroom soup himself. "He insisted on making something all on his own. Guess he wanted to give my yams a run for their money."

Somewhere in the fog of his thoughts, Baby hears them laugh, and feels the gentle press of a hand on his thigh. But there's nothing he can say. No words that will keep his heart from aching every time he looks at Marie's smile or listens to one of George's jokes. Nothing to stop him from thinking of all the things he may never get to experience again.

He picks at his green beans and shrugs. "It was nothin', really."

"Well, I think they're delicious," Marie says, helping herself to a polite forkful. "Makes me feel a little guilty for taking you away from your family this year."

Had it not been for the soothing caress of Emmet's hand on his leg, Baby is certain his tears would be joining their supper, as extra seasoning for Marie's not-so-dry turkey. 

He stares down in silence, until he hears Marie ask, "Baby? Are you sure the food is alright?"

Blinking the shame from his eyes, Baby lifts his head and flashes a flimsy smile. "Yeah, just...savin' room for dessert."

George barks an exuberant laugh. "A man after my own heart. But Marie only made three pies this year, so I guess you'll have to settle for cookies instead."

"Snickerdoodles. Extra cinnamon." She winks at Baby. "Told you you weren't getting off that easy."

The corners of his lips tremble, the lies growing heavier to bear. "Guess I better hurry up an' finish then."

Carefully, before either of them can notice, he reaches under the table and gives Emmet's hand a desperate squeeze.

*****

"Whoo, I am _beat."_ With a grin on his face that could make a clown jealous, George leans back in his chair and rubs his overstuffed belly, looking for all intents and purposes like the turkey emblazoned on his festive sweater. "That was delicious. I can't remember the last time my stomach got such a workout."

"You gonna give your arms a workout too and help with the cleanup?" Marie asks, gathering their empty plates and glasses while Emmet takes charge of the serving dishes. A task Baby could manage with his pinky finger, if he wasn't so busy sitting there like a log contemplating the most painless way to throw itself into the fire. Now? Later? Once the hazy scent of dinner has faded, and the sweat has dried from his pits, and his nerves stop their ceaseless taunting?

The dining room chair echoes George's laugh as he gracelessly lumbers to his feet. "Are you kidding? Not while the Bills are whooping the Cowboys. Emmet can give you a hand. Me and Baby will keep the couch warm until those pies come out of the oven."

Baby jumps up from his seat so fast, he nearly drags the tablecloth with him. "I—um—I'll help with the dishes, Ri-Ri."

"That's very kind of you, Baby," Marie replies, joining Emmet in the kitchen with her stack of plates. "But I think Emmet and I can handle it. You go on and enjoy your game."

"No, really, I wanna help." That is, as best he can with his fingers twisted in the hem of his sweater, tight enough they could be part of its stitching. "It's the least I can do to say thanks for feedin' me."

Dishes clink against the stainless steel sink, a clock ticking down the seconds—one, two, three. Marie looks across the counter at him and cocks her head thoughtfully. "Alright. You and I will take care of the dishes while Emmet spends some quality time with his father."

Emmet chuckles at the suggestion, elbow-deep in shoving tupperware containers full of leftovers into the fridge. "I'm not watching football with Dad if that's what you're thinking."

"No offense, but Emmet wouldn't know a first down if it bit him in the ankles," George jokes. 

Never missing a beat, Marie snaps back, "Well in that case, you two can go clear the snow from the driveway. If you want to talk about things biting your ankles."

Slowly and deliberately, George lowers his glasses a fraction of an inch and peers above them, much like a librarian scowling at an overdue book. "You're joking, right? You want us to do _work_ on _Thanksgiving?"_

"Yeah, this is child labor," Emmet protests, to a raucous burst of laughter from Marie. Pouting, he turns to Baby. "C'mon, Baby, help me out here."

But Baby only shoots him a pleading look. And suddenly, Emmet understands.

He scratches the back of his head and lowers his eyes. "I, uh—sure, Mom, we'll take care of it." Then, with a tip of his chin, he beckons George into the living room. "C'mon, Dad, let's get the shovels out of the garage."

George grumbles loud enough to shake the house, but follows nonetheless, calling out over his shoulder, "You win this time, Marie. But I expect extra pie when I get back. And break out the ice cream, too! Butter Pecan!"

"And _you_ get the Christmas lights while you're at it!" She shouts back. "I feel like decorating next week!" Victory achieved, she shoos them off with a wave before crossing the kitchen to fetch the desserts, almost as if their battle of wits had never happened. And for the longest time, all Baby can do is watch the two reluctantly pull on their gloves and coats, the sight of his last name draped around Emmet's shoulders conjuring more questions than answers. Would Emmet take his name if he were to...you know? Do people still do that in this day and age? And what if he chickens out, after all? Would Emmet be disappointed? How hard would Deedee sock him? Are there enough frozen peas in the world to soothe his bruises?

He's still musing over jewelry and tuxedos, and how elaborate one is expected to make their vows, when he feels Marie glide around behind him, and hears her chuckle, "You know, I've been married almost forty years and I still never get tired of hearing him complain."

Baby turns. "Yeah? Did ya...ever think ya might?"

"Maybe," she says as she sets a gorgeous plate of snickerdoodles on the dining room table—extra cinnamon, just like she'd promised. "But a little irritation is a small price to pay for a lifetime of happiness. I hope you and Emmet can get there someday. No pressure—" she laughs, "—but I like how much he smiles whenever he's around you."

Marriage aside, Baby thinks he could spend a lifetime simply counting all those smiles, every promise he's ever made, hugs and kisses and words meant to be remembered until the stars burn out. A year turned to ten, to twenty, forty, as many as Emmet will give him. As long as he can hold him close and keep him happy, there should be nothing to worry about. Right?

"Well, don't feel like you have to wait for my blessing."

He jerks to attention. "What?"

"The cookies." Marie smiles, gesturing to the plate. "I didn't make them just for show."

She might as well have; neither his sweet tooth nor his black hole belly thinks they could stomach a single crumb right now. "Thanks, I, um—" He plucks a diversion from his dwindling supply. "S-Sorry, I was s'posed to help with the dishes, wasn't I?"

But Marie waves her hand at his offer. "Why don't you sit and relax while I warm up the pies and make us some coffee?" 

His pulse races towards the inevitable. "But—"

"The dishes can wait," she says. "I think I'd rather talk instead. You know, without the boys around."

"Um, sure, OK." Better to break the news while no one is holding expensive china, he figures.

Marie's smile glows bright in the face of his frown. "Sit tight. I'll be back in just a minute." Then, giving his arm a gentle pat, she hurries off to the kitchen, the _whirr_ of the coffee grinder and the aroma of freshly-pulverized beans not far behind.

The warmth of her touch lingers as Baby takes his seat and folds his hands in front of him, and prays to the snickerdoodle gods that "just a minute" will be long enough to untie his tongue. The cookies _do_ look tempting, not at all like when Emmet had baked him a batch for the first time—well, the _second_ first time. 

_"They're not pancakes, they're flying saucers,"_ he'd said, and Baby will never forget the look on his face when he watched him bite into one, as if he'd witnessed an astronaut floating helmetless in space while simultaneously flashing a Thumbs-Up. They'd laughed themselves to pieces for days, and each time they kissed, Emmet would joke that he could still taste the burnt sugar on his tongue, _"So give me a few more, that way I can get used to it."_

"Here you go, four sugars, no cream."

He draws his hands back just as Marie places a steaming mug of coffee on the table. "Wow, that was fast."

"One of the perks of being married to an engineer," she says, settling into the seat opposite with her own mug cradled close. "All of my appliances get a shiny new upgrade." She takes a slow sip, seemingly impervious to the heat. "You know, when Emmet was a child, he used to love helping George out with his projects. I'd come home from work half-expecting to find he'd built the Hubble telescope out of a pair of old eyeglasses."

The image makes Baby smile a bit. "He did fix up our alarm clock to shock ya if you pressed the snooze button two times in a row. It was…" Worse than molten coffee on his tongue. "...something."

"Oh? Did he call himself 'The Improvinator' and speak in a phony Austrian accent while he did it?"

"No. He just said 'I'm gonna catch that early bus if it kills me'. An' then there was a lotta cussin'. I don't wanna repeat any of it."

Marie laughs. "Sounds like my son, alright. But enough about Emmet. I was hoping we could talk about you instead."

Baby barely notices the heat from the mug burning his fingers. "Me?"

"There's something on your mind, isn't there?" She asks, in the kind of concerned, motherly voice he'd often dreamed of when he was a child, hiding under the covers at night with his threadbare teddy in his arms.

He peers down at his reflection and sees that same frightened boy staring back; a child trapped at the adults' table, unaware of what he'd be getting himself into. "Maybe."

"You don't need to pretend, Baby. I can tell. You didn't talk much at dinner. You barely touched your food. And to be honest, I was expecting half of those cookies to be gone the second I turned my back."

His frown deepens. "Sorry."

"You don't need to apologize," Marie presses gently. "Whatever is wrong, you can tell me. I just want to help make it right."

The house seems to grow stone still around them, eyes and ears, coffee and cookies holding their breath in anticipation. And no matter how often he'd practiced inside his head, and in front of a mirror, and sitting on the couch with Emmet's hands in his, Baby finds himself scratching at the words as if they were buried under several layers of dirt, keeping the ground warm for him. He sucks in a breath, and asks, "What's the worst thing you ever done to a person?"

Brow furrowed slightly, Marie sets her mug down and leans forward, crossing her arms atop the table. "I don't think anyone's ever asked me that before. Did something happen between you and Emmet? Did you get into an argument?"

"N-No," Baby quivers. "Emmet's fine—he's—I-I'm—I—" But the rest is lost. 

His bravado gone, he lowers his head and quietly lets the tears trickle down his cheeks.

 _Idiot._ How stupid had he been to believe he could pull this off? He's not the fearless hero Emmet thinks he is; he's nothing but a coward. A criminal. He can't even bring himself to propose to the man he loves more than anything in the universe.

His sobs choke him, his tears flow in rivers of salt and shame, unable to breathe without hiccupping, unable to speak the words that have haunted him the most: _I'm sorry. Please forgive me. Please don't make me go away._

"I was fifteen."

The sound of her voice makes Baby's shoulders stutter to a stop. "H-Huh?"

"There was this girl in my class," Marie says. "Alice, Samantha—I can't remember her name. But she loved to talk. And she always had some particularly nasty things to say about me. Well, one day, I decided I'd had enough. So I caught her outside after school and gave her a black eye as big as the moon. It took three girls to pull me off of her. Poor thing never saw it coming."

"You—You beat someone up?" He asks, swiping at his cheeks.

She chuckles, "Can you believe it? Me, a bookworm who'd only ever swatted at mosquitoes, in a fistfight? My folks couldn't make heads or tails of it. Shondra was enough of a troublemaker; they didn't need two headaches under one roof." She sips her coffee again, and gives her head an incredulous shake. "They set me straight faster than I could tie my shoes. After that, I never threw hands with Angela again. Or anyone else. So believe me when I say that whatever you did, it couldn't be half as bad as punching the makeup off a girl's face."

If Baby were to shut his eyes tight and concentrate hard enough to set his brain on fire, he still wouldn't be able to picture Marie pinning a girl to the ground while she gave her a five-finger facelift. She's not his mother, curtain rod raised to teach him a lesson on being a crybaby. Or his father, come home from the bar with restless hands and a fifth of scotch in his system, and no patience whatsoever for stories of crowd-rallying touchdowns and against-all-odds victories. But most of all, she isn't _him,_ breaking bones and bloodying bodies in an attempt to win the love of those who barely loved him to begin with. 

He drags his fingers over his knuckles and tries to forget how it had all felt. "You know how you're always askin' about my folks? And I always tell ya they're doin' fine?" He pauses, waits for her to nod. "Well, they're not."

Marie's eyes grow soft. "Oh, I'm sorry, Baby. Is there any—"

"They're in prison. Been there almost half a'my life."

"I'm sorry to hear that," she replies, voice so full of compassion, it makes Baby's eyes start to water again. "I can only imagine how hard it must have been for you—how hard it must be not having them around."

"It's OK," Baby tells her. "Pa never really wanted to see me. And Ma—" He tries to blink his tears dry, but they stubbornly push back. "Ma only came around a couple years ago. They...weren't the best of parents. They prob'ly never shoulda had a kid in the first place."

"Baby, don't say that. You're always welcome here. George and I love having you." She reaches for his hand but Baby shies away. 

"You wouldn't say that if you knew half the stuff I done."

"Like what?"

"Like the same kinda stuff my folks did. The kinda stuff that gets ya locked up for assault an' robbery. And arson if they coulda found enough evidence." He watches helplessly as Marie's lips part and close again, her wide eyes staring in quiet shock. And he knows it's over now; there's no reason to hold back any longer. "I-I'm sorry," he cries. "I shoulda told ya before. You were always so nice to me, an' all I did was lie to you. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Seconds turn to hours, hours to days. Silence marred by sniffles and sobs and the sad sound of his heart breaking. Then, after an age of suffering, he hears Marie calmly ask, "How old were you when you got convicted?"

Baby stutters, "Nine—Nineteen."

"And how long were you in for?"

"Not long enough for all the hurt I caused."

 _"Nineteen."_ She spits it in disgust and disbelief. "You were a kid, Baby. With unfit parents. You can't completely blame yourself—"

"Th-That d-doesn't make it r-r-right." Sobs crash like waves against the table, tears drip like rainfall. "There's no excuse for what I did. I coulda stood up to my folks. I coulda been a better person. And I coulda told ya about it before ya took me in. But I was so scared. Emmet might of forgiven me, but if I lost you an' George—" His fractured heart threatens to tear itself from his chest. "You're all I ever wanted in a family. And I screwed it up like I always do."

There's a damp patch on the tablecloth that Baby knows will remain with him for as long as he lives. Longer than the days he'd promised to stay by Emmet's side. Longer than the pause that stretches between them before Marie speaks again. "That story I told you from high school. Do you know why I never thought of it until now?"

He sniffles and shakes his head.

"Because I'm sure no one else has, either. It happened almost fifty years ago. Fifty years of learning and growing despite the mistakes we've made. No one is perfect, but everyone is forgivable." 

Gently, she lays her hand on his, and when their eyes meet, it feels like all the stars in the Milky Way are shining back, arms curled around him in a loving embrace. "When I look at you now, Baby, I don't see all the bad things you've done in the past. All I see is the sweet, caring man sitting right in front of me. A man I'm proud to call my son. And nothing is ever going to change that."

Tears still cascading down his cheeks, Baby clutches her hand with every ounce of his strength. "I—I love you, Ri-Ri."

Marie smiles. "I love you too. And so does George, and Emmet—well, I don't think you need to be told you mean the world to him. You're an Ellis now. Though I don't know if that's necessarily a good thing. We're all a little bit quirky inside. Electrified alarm clocks notwithstanding." 

_Baby Ellis, huh?_ Yeah, he could get used to that. He wipes his tears away and smiles back. "Th-Thanks."

"Feel a little better now? Think you can make it through dessert?"

Baby nods. "Yeah. I really want some of yer snickerdoodles."

Chuckling, Marie reaches out and clasps his hands in both of hers. "You can eat the whole plate. There's always going to be more waiting for you."

"Looks like you two had a good time while we were toiling away outside."

They turn their heads to find Emmet standing in the archway—glasses fogged, jacket dusted with snow, and cheeks pink from the cold, though it's not enough to keep the smile from creeping across his lips as he looks them over. "Did I miss out on anything important?"

"Baby is a wonderful conversationalist," Marie gushes. "Did you know chocolate peanut butter is his second favorite cookie? Good thing I've got some cocoa powder in the pantry."

"Maybe you can give me some pointers, then," Emmet laughs. "A year later and I'm still making flying saucers."

Marie grins and shoots Baby a wink. "Don't worry, you've got plenty of years left to try."

 _Yeah,_ Baby thinks as he gazes into her smiling face. _I'll make sure of that._

"Hey, do you mind if I grab my camera and take a quick photo?" Asks Emmet, jerking his thumb towards the living room.

"Sounds like fun." Baby turns to Marie and gives a wink of his own. "I mean, if you're up for it."

"Only if I can get one for myself," she says.

Emmet's eyes twinkle like a string of Christmas lights. "Great. I'll be right back. Don't move a muscle!" He yells behind him as he races off.

Baby wouldn't dare.

*****

"I ever tell ya 'bout the time I won the quarter-final for my Junior Varsity football team?" He asks as they're lying in bed that night, his tummy full of cookies, and his chest warm and comfy with Emmet's head resting upon it. The room is dark and the house is quiet, and Marie's old quilt isn't quite as soft and cozy as it had been in its prime, but Baby knows he'll be sleeping soundly. He can feel it in Emmet's heartbeat, and the smile pressed against his skin:

"No. But I'm always up for a good bedtime story."

"OK, so there was one play left in the game," he starts in a dramatic half-whisper. "We were up by a field goal, but the other team's quarterback was shootin' for a touchdown, and he had the arm of a sniper rifle." 

Emmet gives a laugh that could melt the frost on the windows. "Go on."

"Well, the snap comes, the quarterback starts rushin' into position, an' I just barrel through the center and right up into his face. And I sack the hell out of 'im."

"I don't understand any of that, but it sounds amazing."

The wind whistles like a cheering crowd, the moon glows like stadium lights. Emmet's fingers dance their own plays over the fabric of his undershirt, up and down in soothing patterns, until Baby captures his hand and pins it to his heart. "I was so proud a'myself," he breathes. "We lost the semi-final a week later, but it didn't matter; I still felt like a winner." His eyes slip shut, and he nuzzles his nose in Emmet's curls, inhaling slowly. "I was thinkin' it might make a good breakfast story tomorrow mornin'. If it doesn't end up borin' your Mom."

"I'm sure she'll love it as much as she loved talking to you today," Emmet replies with a soft chuckle. "Whatever it was you were talking about."

"She's the best, you know that? She even said she'd talk to your Dad for me. But that I didn't have to worry, 'cause he'd understand, too."

"Told you. They love you as much as if you were their own. I mean, you are, sort of. You're with me. And I don't plan on changing that anytime soon."

Baby's lips curl into a smile. "Yeah, me either."

"Goodnight, Baby," Emmet says, cheek smooshed to perfection against his chest. "See you again tomorrow."

Baby presses a soft kiss to his hair. "Night, Emmet. I can't wait." And, holding him close, he brushes the pad of his thumb over Emmet's ring finger, and pictures how nice it would look encircled by a band of gold.

**Author's Note:**

> For those of you who aren't familiar with [Jewelers' Row](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jewelers'_Row%2C_Philadelphia), it's the diamond district in Philadelphia, basically where you would go to get your wedding/engagement rings in the city. And they do give you cookies and wine while you're browsing, or at least the store I went to did.
> 
> Another note: I've been watching a lot of DS9 lately, and I sort of imagine Emmet's mom with [Kasidy Yates'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eKX3iMnV924) voice. (Spoilers in the link)
> 
> If you liked this, please leave a comment or kudos. And you can always chat with me on [tumblr.](http://ladydorian.tumblr.com)


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